Theatre in Review: Billy Elliot (Imperial Theatre)

	Kiril Kulish. Photo by David Scheinmann.

There are so many bold, arrestingly staged pictures in Billy Elliot that I could fill an entire column with them. Here are just three:

The young Billy, sitting in the kitchen with his grandma, asks the addled old lady about her marriage. She recalls that all-too-bittersweet union in "We'd Go Dancing," describing their lusty, drink-filled Saturday nights and terrible mornings-after. As she sings, a pubful of young men appears through a wall of mist, carrying chairs, arranging their bodies in a series of friezes depicting the drunken revelry of years gone by. She wanders among this forest of sensuously posed bodies, lost in memories. It's beautiful and a little bit chilling.

Later, when Billy begins sneaking off to a dance class where he is the only boy, the number "Solidarity" crosses the children's tentative leaps and pliés with the clash of striking miners and the local police. It's a remarkable piece of dramatic compression: In one striking sequence combining classical dance gestures and bluntly administered billy clubs, we see the young boy's growing confidence and skill juxtaposed with the social unrest that is dragging his entire community to disaster.

And, left alone in a frigid union hall on a cheerless Christmas day, his dreams of being a dancer shattered, Billy begins to improvise a dance to a tape of "Swan Lake." Suddenly, he is joined by a handsome, brilliantly skilled ballet dancer -- the man he might yet become, if anyone will let him. The number builds to an ecstatic climax, the grim present and the possible future entwined in a heartbreaking pas de deux.

Many musicals based on films seem to be made by people ticking off a list, conscientiously recreating everyone's favorite moments with a fidelity that stifles any creativity. Billy Elliot's creators have done the hard work of identifying the specific techniques of the theatre that can best be used to deepen the story's emotional impact -- and to give it a stage life all its own. They've succeeded so well that, even when the show puts a foot wrong, you won't be angry with it for long.

As in the film, the action is set in northern England's coal country; it's 1984 and Margaret Thatcher is shutting down the pits. Billy lives with his widowed father and brother -- both miners -- and his elderly grandmother. Accidentally exposed to a dance class run by the tough-talking Mrs. Wilkinson, he discovers a gift that could transport him to London and the School of the Royal Ballet. But the central wrenching truth of Lee Hall's libretto (based on his screenplay) is that if Billy succeeds, it will be against a background of dissolution -- the pits will close, jobs will vanish, a way of life will be wiped out.

In scene after scene, this terrible paradox is made achingly real, as Billy pursues a goal that neither his father nor brother can accept, and as the streets outside their house are riven by violence. The score, music by Elton John and lyrics by Hall, blends pop sounds of the period with traditional English folk styles. "The Stars Look Down" is a stirring ode for striking miners. In the amusing "Shine," Mrs. Wilkinson herds her hopelessly untalented horde of little girls through another dreadful lesson. The scabrously funny "Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher" describes the miners' most unholiday-like feelings for their principal enemy.

Throughout, Peter Darling's choreography finds exciting ways of expressing Billy's conflicted feelings and the simmering violence around him -- both of which come together in the "Angry Dance," in which the boy pours out his frustration in dance, literally hurling his body against a wall of police shields.

Stephen Daldry's powerful staging is filled with actors who can make the most of the musical's extended book scenes. Haydn Gwynne, the only holdover from the West End, is a priceless Mrs. Wilkinson, her scarecrow frame towering over her talentless charges, a cigarette dangling daintily from her right hand, a sarcastic remark ready to leap from her lips. She may be a bitter second-rater, but she knows talent when she sees it, and her tough-tender bond with Billy gives the show one of its strongest emotional charges. Gregory Jbara is heartbreaking as Billy's downtrodden, grief-stricken father. The look on his face when, late in the show, he realizes that his son has a talent that will take him far from home, is a devastating mix of love, awe, and something close to horror. Carole Shelley is superb as Billy's grandma, who moves in and out of reality at whim. Leah Hocking is a touching, dignified presence as Billy's late mother, who appears to him from time to time.

As is well known, the role of Billy rotates among three young actors. I saw Kiril Kulish, who combines a natural presence with solid ballet technique and a lovely, understated singing voice. As Michael, Billy's friend, who is definitely growing up to be a "poofter," Frank Dolce delivers his gag lines with brio, although, for my money, he could be a little bit less of a cutup.

Which brings us to the show's one problematic aspect: At the odd moments when Billy Elliot tries to be a brassy Broadway musical, it becomes corny and ordinary. The most egregious example of this is the number "Expressing Yourself," in which Michael and Billy dress up in ladies' clothes and slink about the stage, while giant dresses on hangers cavort about them. (Note to the creative team: Billy can be a troubled, bottled-up soul, or he can hard-sell a hot-cha comedy number. He cannot do both.) The number "Born to Boogie," in which Mrs. Wilkinson first hooks Billy on dancing, is marred by the lumbering steps of the overweight pianist who plays for the dance classes -- another play for easy laughs. Jbara is allowed to mug through the later scenes, when Billy's dad feels ill at ease around the Royal Ballet toffs -- and must he wear that vulgar apron, which transforms him into a sight gag in the suspenseful climactic scene?

Ultimately, none of this matters; what's powerful about the show wipes out any possible flaws. Further evidence of the production's original thinking is found in Ian MacNeil's set design, which places most of the action in a dreary, tacky, low-rise union hall that easily converts to other locations -- for example, the curving staircase that rises up out of the deck, leading to Billy's bedroom. MacNeil also creates a stunning reverse-angle view of the Royal Opera House as well as a dilapidated, yet glittering, show curtain for the ballet. Nicky Gillibrand's costumes feel thoroughly authentic; Mrs, Wilkinson's outfits are such riots of mismatched patterns and outrageous colors that they achieve their own weird distinction. Rick Fisher's lighting can turn in a second from grimy, monochromatic reality to floods of gorgeously saturated colors; he does superb work carving the dancers out of the darkness. Paul Arditti's sound design packs a lot of punch, but the voices occasionally are lost under Martin Koch's orchestrations; a slightly more balanced mix would be helpful.

Then again, just at the point when you think the creative team must have run out of invention comes a next-to-final tableau, in which Billy stands alone at center stage, facing a gang of miners who, defeated by Thatcher, are going back to work. The stage is dark except for the lights built into their helmets. The sight of this extraordinay boy, caught in the miners' headlights, watching these defeated men lowered into the earth, is a shattering illustration of the show's central theme. Billy is talented, but this gift will isolate him from everything he's ever loved. A world will vanish, and he will thrive. That's an awful to get across in a musical -- and Billy Elliot does it splendidly.--David Barbour